


I'll be your best kept secret and your biggest mistake (the hand behind this pen relieves a failure every day)

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Anal Sex, Awkward Sexual Tension, Bisexuality, Blow Job, Demisexuality, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Job, John and Sherlock actually love each other, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Morally Ambiguous Character, Non-Consensual Touching, Queer Platonic Relationship (John & Sherlock), Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Victor Trevor is an asshole, bisexual!John, demisexual!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything was going fine in that 'we're perfectly heterosexual men and we don't need to talk about our feelings' sort of way. Then Victor Trevor showed up for, really, no reason at all whatsoever.</p><p>Written for InvinsibleSarcasm on DeviantART and Tumblr. Their work is awesome, so go check it out!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I keep my jealousy close 'cause it's all mine

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a reference to a Fall Out Boy song, although don't ask me which one because I can't remember their names, they're all too damn long. Also this is my first time writing anything in the explicit range, so I apologize for the awkwardness. I'm an asexual and a virgin myself, so this might be horribly wrong and off and yeah...this episode of TMI is over.

Victor Trevor might have been the most gorgeous man John had ever met, and John didn’t normally go for men. He’d had his fair share of sexual experiments and found that he could be attracted to men as well as women, but rarely found men to his liking – much less men with whom he thought he could be in a relationship without wanting to murder said men. More and more recently, he’d given up protesting to people who accused Sherlock and himself of being boyfriends/lovers/partners (although frankly, he’d always hated the term _lover_ , as he’d always reserved it for ridiculous romance novels and extramarital affairs) because their relationship very nearly was a marriage, even if he and Sherlock weren’t technically together. He knew – or perhaps, now, thought – Sherlock wasn’t really into the idea of romantic relationships, being married to his work and all that; but experience had taught John there was no way to have any sort of relationship, romantic or otherwise, outside of his arrangement with Sherlock.

So John had been perfectly happy to act like some sort of diluted housewife, and it was really worth it in the end for Sherlock’s odd compliments that, to anyone else, would have been more awkward than flattering. John was perfectly happy to continue this even after finding out that Sherlock had faked his death (he’d had his suspicions and anyway, wasn’t Sherlock’s non-death what he’d wanted?) and they had their violently awkward reunion. 

John wasn't so content to continue this sort of arrangement in the light of Victor Trevor showing up on his doorstep.

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Sherlock was asleep – or rather, half-asleep – when Victor Trevor arrived. He was in that wonderful lucid state where everything was warm and comfortable and a somehow liquid-feeling, even though his dreams were intangible. He had no idea who was at the door (or even that the doorbell had been rung, let alone fixed, despite both John and Mrs Hudson yelling for him to answer it) or of the major, overly-dramatic and annoying events that were about to unfold. No, at 8:10 in the morning Sherlock Holmes’ biggest problem was the slight discomfort he was feeling in the trousers he was sleeping in.

He wasn’t entirely aware of it in his lucidity, only that it made rolling to lay on his stomach slightly awkward. Sherlock groaned inwardly. He didn’t sleep often, but when he did fall asleep he didn’t want to be woken up, and certainly not due to some petty physical discomfort. Sherlock huffed and flopped onto his back, letting his right hand brush the soft fabric of the floor –

No, this was wrong. The apartment was hardwood, the only occasional carpeting was the rugs and he didn’t have one in his room, certainly not underneath his bed…

Absently Sherlock’s fingers tugged at the soft fabric, pinching and dragging the object up to his face to brush the softness against him. He couldn’t be bothered to open his eyes to look properly at it because yes, this was quite a nice feeling and could he possibly use this as some sort of pillow? It was warm, too, and well worn, loved. Somewhere in the back of Sherlock’s mind it registered that this was one of John’s jumpers, and that this was the reason it smelt of tea and laundry detergent and soap and whatever shampoo was in the shower. Sherlock tried to wrap his arms and legs around it, dragging the end of the sleeve as close to his face as possible without letting his thighs relinquish their hold on the body of the jumper. He wondered if this was what hugging John would feel like, because it was simply the best feeling and why hadn’t they done this before? He was overcome with a sensation of euphoria, his entire insides tingling and his mouth involuntarily smiling in a way he could even feel in his toes, making them curl up as the rest of his body collapsed in upon itself. His hold on the sweater tightened as he shuddered. 

If he’d paid a bit more attention, Sherlock would have noticed some odd physical reactions he was experiencing, such as the way he was sweating, panting, and the acceleration of his heart rate. As it was, it didn’t register in his mind that something had even happened until John called from downstairs for him to wake up because they had a visitor, and Sherlock sat bolt upright with a slight reddening in his cheeks and the alarming feeling of embarrassment. Sherlock blinked at the jumper lying halfway on his chest, reliving the memory of how it felt to hold it and smell it and move into it –

‘ _No_ ,’ he said to no-one in particular, because there was nobody in his room. But he said it again, standing up, and looking horrified at his bed because _No_ , this hadn’t happened to him since he hit puberty and he wasn’t intending for it to ever happen again because bad things happened in coordination with _this_ happening, so _no_ , _no_ , and _no_ , this simply could not be happening.

But Sherlock was a glutton for punishment and picked up John’s jumper with two fingers as if the poor mass of wool had done something to physically and emotionally harm him, and looked with disdain at the white, sticky substance clinging to the sweater as his cheeks heated up and Sherlock said for the first time in fifteen years, ‘ _Fuck_.’

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John sat in his chair and stared at Victor Trevor, in Sherlock’s chair opposite, his mind working so quickly and going in so many different directions that John was quite shocked he hadn’t worked himself into a migraine. 

Victor was tall, somewhere around Sherlock’s height, with dark brown curls and a light beard. He was thin, but not quite as thin as Sherlock and much healthier looking, with similar long fingers and the mischievous, _look-at-me-I’m-better-than-you smirk_ Sherlock usually reserved for people like Donovan and Anderson. But despite this and the annoyingly handsome way Victor Trevor looked in the suit he was sporting and the tap of his fingers on the arm of his chair or even the smug way he spoke to John when John opened the door, the most infuriating thing about Victor Trevor was the way he just ignored John, as though John weren’t even in the room.

John was siting erect in his chair, teacup on saucer in this right hand, his left firmly clutching the handle of the cup in aggravation. He knew there was a good chance he was going to break the handle and that tea would go everywhere, but John was too preoccupied with trying to make everything Victor Trevor had claimed make sense.

He could, indeed, see Victor Trevor as a higher-up CEO of some sort, he could see him as getting into some sort of corporate trouble ( _Probably caused it himself, too_ , John thought, grip on the teacup handle getting ever stronger), he could even see Victor Trevor as being gay because John knew good and well that looks and position meant nothing in relation to sexuality. What he simply could not fathom was that, at some point in time, Victor Trevor had been the boyfriend of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was married to his work. Sherlock wasn’t interested in sex. John could tell from one look that sex was something Victor Trevor was very much interested in, and not all of it with his current partner. John could tell from the smirk on Victor Trevor’s face and the glint in his eyes as they slid to meet John’s when Sherlock finally entered the room half-naked that Victor Trevor wasn’t really counting John Watson for very much, and although he usually wasn’t too bothered – alright, maybe annoyed – by what other people thought or even what they said, the fact that Victor Trevor was looking at him as though sizing John up and judging him to be not much of a competition made John’s blood boil and set his teeth on edge. It didn’t even register with John that Sherlock himself was shocked into speechlessness and was flushed and his hair was mussed and that once again he was wearing only wearing that bloody bedsheet because John was simply too busy glaring at the way Victor Trevor talked to Sherlock out of the side of his mouth and leered at John out of the other side of his eyes.

Sherlock was, unsurprisingly, the first to break the ring of hostility with a snap. ‘What do you want, Victor?’

Victor’s face was the poster of innocence, a wide (and fake, in John’s opinion) smile gracing his face as he placed his arms in the air horizontally, the way someone else might do when asking for a hug. ‘Why, Sherly,’ he batted his eyelashes, ‘Can’t you deduce me?’

‘I could, but it’s not worth it.’ Victor snorted.

‘You used to be so much better with your insults, Sherly. Oh, sigh. I suppose I should tell you?’ Sherlock’s composure was failing; he was trying far too hard to act repulsed by Victor and it had an almost opposite effect, making him look more like a lovestruck teenager afraid to get too close to their crush. John wondered if it would be too inappropriate to make gagging noises. ‘My partner’s gone missing,’ John had literally to bite his tongue to keep himself from making a snide remark. He absently wondered when he’d gotten so possessive and quickly ignored the voice in the back of his head saying he’d always been this possessive. John needn’t have bothered, as Sherlock interrupted Victor Trevor himself.

‘Boring. He’s probably left you because you’re a frankly shit boyfriend, Victor. You can leave now.’

Victor pouted at this and refused to move. ‘Now, I don’t think that’s very fair, Sherlock. Do you, John?’ He pulled the entire force of his gaze onto John and blinked slowly. John could feel that his mouth was open, but couldn’t remember how to close it. Victor’s eyes, never really focused on John’s, turned back to Sherlock. ‘After all, you’ve got a bias.’

‘Nonetheless, this is not the kind of detective work I do, and you are well aware of that. Unless you have something of real importance or interest, please leave immediately –‘

‘He took a flashdrive of confidential information about my company. A flashdrive hidden in a place no one could possibly find because as you well know, not even you can dig my secrets out of me.’

 _Intense_ would not have been a strong enough word to describe the look that passed between them then. Sherlock’s cheeks hollowed and his face paled. Victor Trevor’s eyes and general demeanour lost the teasing, mischievous manner they’d had earlier and became something ugly and commanding.

Sherlock, lips pressed hard together in a mockery of a straight line, nodded once. ‘Two days is all I require. You’ll be hearing from me. I’d love for you to stay and chat, but I’ve much more important things to do.’ And with the small amount of dignity available to someone wearing only a bedsheet, Sherlock strode out of the room as though they had not just brushed a nuclear emotional fallout. Victor Trevor watched Sherlock leave, eyes concentrated on Sherlock’s posterior.

‘Oh, it used to be so funny when he’d do that at Uni. Everyone else found it awkward. I was secretly always hoping he’d trip and show off a little more, although that’s one secret of mine I don’t think I ever kept very well.’


	2. keep quiet, nothing comes as easy as you; can I lay in your bed all day?

Victor Trevor was reason number forty-one Sherlock Holmes claimed to be a sociopath and acted as though he didn’t have emotions, and number seventy-eight as to why he did not have friends. It was true: Victor Trevor had been Sherlock’s first boyfriend. To date, he had also been Sherlock’s last, and their relationship was one overwhelming failure after another.

John’s deductions were mostly right: Sherlock didn’t have very much of an interest in sex, because he very rarely felt sexual urges. This wasn’t a hard-and-fast rule however, as increasingly recently Sherlock was awoken in the morning with an erection and found himself only half-consciously humping John’s jumper. Sherlock felt horribly guilty and nervous about the whole affair, as John was very protective of his heterosexuality and might have murdered Sherlock, should he ever find out what Sherlock was up to. So Sherlock counted himself very lucky that John had a plethora of jumpers and didn’t seem to be missing this particular one.

That said, Sherlock also counted himself extremely unlucky that it took him almost a week to solve this extremely simple case. It should have been very obvious: there was no secret company information and there was no flashdrive. Victor Trevor was simply a bored sociopath dating someone with sense enough to give him a taste of his own medicine (cheated on him) and Victor, always playing the loving boyfriend, decided to report his missing partner in an attempt to take some of the blame off of himself. It was an easy-to-solve case and even Lestrade seemed worried when it took Sherlock longer than two days to figure it all out. But this damn sexual frustration…

 _No._ Sherlock shook his head at himself in the mirror. If what he was feeling was a simple as sexual frustration, it would not be such a problem. He was in love with John, everyone in the world must have known this by now. His suicide note was an apology to John and on the audio he left for Scotland Yard to find, his obvious worst fear was splayed out by Moriarty: losing John, hurting John, John dying, John crying, John, John, John. Sherlock’s life, Sherlock’s mind, Sherlock’s heart revolved around John. When he’d had his infatuation with Victor during university, it had been easy enough to figure out: Victor was brilliant and attractive and not annoyed by Sherlock and his oddities. John happened to have all of these (at least in Sherlock’s eyes), but he also happened to have one thing Victor Trevor had none of: patience. Sherlock knew that it was this trait and its fellow attributes like kindness were the things he loved most about John, although he couldn’t think of a reason not to love him.

There were many, many reasons not to love Sherlock.

On Thursday, the fourth day of the case, while John was out getting the groceries, Sherlock’s mind palace was interrupted by a knock on the door. He’d been expecting Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, or even Sarah (or whomever the newest girl was, if there even was one) looking for John. He hadn’t been expecting Victor Trevor.

‘Hello, Sherlock. How is everything going?’

‘You know I can’t talk to you about the case, Victor,’ he mumbled, hands still obscuring his mouth.

Victor sighed and placed himself in John’s chair. ‘You never used to be this uptight, love,’ Sherlock shuddered at the misplaced term of endearment. ‘What happened to you? When I knew you, you were…wild, and brilliant, full of colours and life. What changed?’

‘I sobered up. I grew up.’

‘But you still haven’t had that stick removed from your ass.’ Sherlock flinched again. He knew the room itself wasn’t heating up, but Sherlock didn’t want to admit to himself that he was blushing. He’d been doing far too much of that recently. 

‘Just because I did not wish to have sex with you, Victor, does not mean that I am a prude. I’m simply not interested.’

‘Oh, but how we all know that’s not true, Sherlock.’ Victor lifted himself, pelvis-first, from John’s chair and sauntered to where Sherlock sat on the couch. ‘I’ve seen you every morning for four days now. Blushing, pupils dilated, heart rate increased. I can almost hear you panting some days, and I can just imagine you in your bed, fondling yourself. I bet you twist at the end, don’t you? I bet you thumb your slit. I bet you imagine me, with your riding crop, slapping you across the back with it, bending you over and fucking you until you bleed. I bet you scream for me when you come, and I bet you spit-slick your fingers before you put them on yourself, because I bet you like to imagine me sucking you down. And then after you come I bet you stick those same sticky fingers in your mouth and imagine you’re sucking me off. I bet you regret it, every day, not letting me have you. You’d let me fuck you now, wouldn’t you?’

Sherlock had never much liked the phrase _paralyzed with fear_ , mostly because it was a phenomenon he’d never experienced before and he couldn’t really imagine anybody being incapable of moving because they were afraid. The body didn’t really work like that, survival instincts didn’t really work like that.

But right now, Victor was touching Sherlock in places he had never been touched before, and Sherlock was very much not enjoying it. Even less so when a voice from the staircase cleared its throat and announced its presence.

‘Excuse me, Mister Trevor, but if you’re going to rape somebody, please do so not in my house. I’d prefer if you didn’t do it at all, but if you absolutely insist, I’d say it’s best if you decide to do so somewhere you’re likely to be caught by the cops. I’d love to see Lestrade’s reaction to you, or even Dimmock’s.’

Victor sneered in John’s direction. ‘He isn’t saying no.’

‘Silence isn’t consent. Even Anderson knows that, and he may be the dumbest person I’ve ever met. I want you to leave my house and leave it now, or I swear to God I will put you in the ground myself.’

With grudging acceptance and another sneer, Victor removed his hand from Sherlock’s front and walked past John, making sure to nudge him harshly into the frame on his way out. Sherlock might have yelled at him, if he had at all been capable of moving.

When he heard the slam of the front door, John ran to Sherlock’s aid. ‘Are you okay? Sherlock, please, answer me. He didn’t hurt you in any other way, did he?’ Sherlock continued to stare, unseeingly, straight ahead, but he shook his head for a ‘no.’ John sighed in a uneasy sort of relief and started to walk over to his own chair, but decided better of it. ‘Sherlock,’ he said softly, ‘we need to talk.’

Sherlock nodded. ‘Alcohol first.’ More like alcohol during, John thought, but he poured them both the first thing he could find and sat down on the coffee table, watching as Sherlock tried to drain his glass in one gulp. John hadn’t seen Sherlock so afraid since the case in Baskerville, and he’d been sincerely hoping then that he’d never see him so afraid again. This was worse.

‘You have questions.’ Sherlock stated.

John nodded. ‘Most of which are simply…why? Why would you go out with someone like him?’

Sherlock snorted in derision. ‘Because no one else would have me. Why else?’

John frowned in response. ‘Oh come on, you must know that’s not true.’

Sherlock snorted again. ‘And what would you know about that? You’re physically attractive, popular, have a normal sex drive, everybody likes you. Only a complete idiot wouldn’t fall in love with you.’

John was going to tell Sherlock to calm down, there was no need to be so bitter about it all. Then he was going to say he wasn’t all that attractive (and silently comment that Sherlock was quite physically attractive himself), that sex wasn’t all that important, and that he really wasn’t as well-liked as Sherlock seemed to think he was. But then the last part finally caught up with him. ‘Sherlock? Do you, ehrm, have something to tell me?’

Sherlock blinked at John blankly, clearly not realizing the enormity of what he’d just said. ‘Do you mean the last part, where I’m obviously and hopelessly in love with you?’ Or perhaps he did.

‘That wasn’t obvious to me! Why didn’t you say something?’

Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Honestly John, I didn’t think it needed saying. I thought the part where I jumped off of a building to save your life made my feelings very clear.’

‘But you weren’t really dead.’

‘You didn’t know that,’ he pointed out. ‘And besides, there were so many different things that could have gone wrong that day. Even if I hadn’t had a way out, I’d still have jumped for you.’

As with most other things involving Sherlock, John’s reaction was sudden. There was no warning, he simply hooked a finger into Sherlock’s shirt and dragged him closer, kissing him violently. He’d never been one to really enjoy incorporating violence into sex or romance because as a doctor, he’d seen so many situations where doing just that could go wrong. But here, he didn’t just kiss Sherlock softly the way he had when trying to woo the women he was dating. Instead, he bit his lips at the end of every kiss, even the ones that landed on his cheeks and the side of his mouth.

He was afraid for a moment that he’d be rejected. Sherlock had, after all, just been molested by his ex-boyfriend – but Sherlock was every bit as eager as he was, returning the kissing and the biting and dragging John from the coffee table to his lap and settling one hand on his hip, the other erratically messing with his hair. Sherlock was so preoccupied with what they were doing that he forgot to breathe and had to break off for a moment, gasping noisily. John laughed into Sherlock’s neck, not quite able to breathe correctly himself and feeling ridiculous tears at the side of his eyes from lack of breath. ‘God, I’m in love with you too, you stupid prat. Both of us. Jesus. We’re so stupid.’ He kissed Sherlock’s neck twice before looking back up. John was taken aback for a moment; Sherlock had a slightly sad, nervous look in his eyes, as though…

‘You didn’t know? How could you not know? I’ve only stopped dating, only stopped denying it every time someone accuses us of being together –‘

Sherlock interrupted John again, with another kiss, pushing him into the couch and pressing his hips as far into John’s space as they would go. He felt his head buzzing along with the rest of his body parts, rubbing up against John in a way he was sure mimicked a cat scratching its back. He might have even purred a bit as he panted, just as worked up as he normally felt in the mornings, but without the awkward reactions.

Sherlock was quite enjoying this, kissing, with all softness and warmth and excitement. This was something he was pretty sure he could handle, although he couldn’t seem to get his body to stop rubbing against John’s and if he didn’t stop it fairly soon, he was going to have the same embarrassing reaction, and it was going to be a million times worse because this time John was actually involved, was really here.

Sherlock moaned when he pressed his clothed penis against John's and felt that it was just as hard as his own. He’d never felt so giddy in his life. If he were one for prayer, he might have even thanked God that John returned his affections, his attentions, fully. Sherlock repeated the action and tried to determine what John would look like naked, how long he would be, how thick, how he would like to be touched. The friction made John moan and open his mouth, dragging Sherlock’s bottom lip into his mouth and touching it slightly with his tongue before slipping his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and petting Sherlock’s tongue with his own.

Sherlock gasped and for one brilliant moment his mind was stark white, like starlight, and he felt like he was being consumed by the warmth around him, by the heady smell of sweat and –

Sherlock let out a slightly frightened gasp and stared at John for a fraction of a second. He didn’t see judgment, or fear, or even the smallest amount of disgust; merely concern that Sherlock had stopped kissing him, despite the fact that he’d known what had happened. Sherlock had just orgasmed when they weren’t even having sex and John wasn’t angry and he didn’t feel violated.

Sherlock really didn’t know what to do now.

‘Sherlock, love,’ John repeated. ‘Are you okay? That’s – that’s normal, you know –‘

Sherlock nodded numbly, all systems offline. ‘Just – I’m sorry, please excuse me for a moment.’

John blinked once, softly, caressing the side of his face, his curls, before realizing that Sherlock was waiting for his approval. ‘Yes, Sherlock, of course. Take all the time you need.’


	3. and if you say this makes you happy, then I'm not the only one lying

John dreaded the conversation that was bound to follow last night’s events, as this conversation had no choice but to be awkward; there really wasn’t any polite way to say _So, I made you cum in your pants just by sticking my tongue in your mouth_. John wasn’t exactly surprised when Sherlock didn’t bring it up at all the next day. John didn't either, although he was worried about what Sherlock had been through in the past (probably fucking Victor Trevor, John thought) that made him look so…anxious. The word really seemed too plain for someone like Sherlock Holmes, but there wasn’t another word for it.

Despite that John had adopted the demeanour of someone who was ‘letting it slide,’ so to speak, the reality of that decision was still wavering and by three o’clock Saturday morning, had completely crumbled.

Sherlock was at his violin again, neither writing a new piece nor playing an already-made one; but at the same time, John could tell Sherlock wasn’t purposefully scratching at the strings. Something was driving him to distraction. John rolled his shoulders back to prepare himself for The Conversation. Neither of them could sleep. Now was better than never.

‘Sherlock,’ he called, voice gravely.

Sherlock flinched slightly and turned around. He set his bow and violin down on his chair, very calmly walked over to John, and stuck his tongue in John’s mouth.

John responded the way any rational human being might’ve: positively. It took John a full minute to remember that this wasn’t, in fact, why he had come down to speak to Sherlock, and then cringed at his own internal choice of words. He set his hands on Sherlock’s ribcage and pushed him down ( _trying to climb me like a tree, Jesus, doesn’t he know how much taller than me he is?_ ), not taking his hands off for fear Sherlock might run away again.

Both men were grimacing at one another. ‘Yes, Sherlock, we really do need to talk about this.’ Sherlock sighed. ‘I just want to know, what the hell did he do to you? Did he force you?’

Sherlock shook his head. ‘No, but he tried. Some days I’d wake up feeling violated. I think he might have touched me while I was sleeping. He told me I had some sort of medical issue for not wanting to have sex, and that I had some sort of mental issue for…’ John shook his head and leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s.

‘This,’ John started, ‘What we have, this whole…arrangement –‘

‘Queer Platonic.’

John nodded, not actually having any idea what he was agreeing to. ‘This is fine, if this is all you want. Please don’t – I don’t want you –‘ John huffed, rolling his shoulders back again and closing his eyes. ‘I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to do something to keep me here. If you don’t want to have sex with me, don’t have sex with me. If you don’t want to kiss me, then don’t kiss me.’ He could feel Sherlock’s hands on his face, his fingers tracing John’s outline. ‘I said the first – well, second or third – time we met, and I meant what I said. _It’s_ all _fine_. I'm not leaving you.’

‘Do you really mean it?’ Sherlock whispered back.

‘Yes, of course I do.’

Sherlock nodded, his forehead still touching John’s, and pulled back a bit, his hands on John’s. ‘I just, I keep getting these –‘ Sherlock growled at the blush rising from his neck to his cheeks and turned his head away, glaring at the ground. John shook his head again.

‘No, okay, that’s – this is one thing that isn’t fine. Sherlock, you can’t hide from me like this. I’m your doctor.’

Sherlock’s head snapped back up and he smirked. ‘I thought doctors weren’t supposed to date their patients?’

‘Yes, well, you’re a special case. Stop trying to get off topic, what do you feel?’

Sherlock squirmed from one foot to the other. ‘I feel…urges.’

‘What, like sexual ones?’ Sherlock nodded, his teeth grinding in rejection of the snide remark trying to worm its way out of his mouth.

‘But I don’t understand – why would I want to have sex with you? I actually _like_ \- I actually, I love you.’

‘Well, the ideal is to have both love and sexual attraction in the same person. Seriously, who gave you your sex education lessons? ‘Cause they’re shit.’

‘I never had any.’

‘Well,’ he sighed, looking around the room. ‘That explains a lot. Look, what Victor did to you wasn’t born out of love, he did those things because for some people, it gives them a sense of power. Like Irene. For them, it doesn’t actually mean anything. When you have sex with someone you love – with somebody you actually care for – it can be…quite pleasurable. Well, it can say things that words can’t.’

‘Show me.’ John looked down, trying to determine if Sherlock was joking. There was no playfulness or the determination of a challenge in his face. _God, he’s asking for an example_.

‘Okay,’ John agreed. ‘But I don’t trust your bedroom, let’s go upstairs.’

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The trek upstairs was just as awkward as it had always been. It wasn’t like John had never been with a virgin before, but he hadn’t been with many men and in the few times that he had, they had never been virgins. 

When they reached John’s bedroom he drug Sherlock closer by the hips, kissing him softly only once. ‘Before we do anything, I need to know that you’re ready, that you actually want to do this. Because if you don’t, if you’re just doing this because you think it’s what I want, it could destroy what we already have. Just remember, I can’t read your mind.’

‘Yes, I know, I’m not stupid.’ Even though the words we normal for Sherlock, they lacked the usually bite of sarcasm tinted with affection. 

John kissed him again, this time with more force, and pressed his hips into Sherlock’s. He walked Sherlock back toward his bed before loosening Sherlock’s sleeping trousers and removing his shirt. Sherlock kissed back, attempting to drag John’s shirt over his head. There was an awkward exchange of tongues as they worked to finish getting each other undressed.

John didn’t wait or pause to get a look at Sherlock’s body. If he succeeded, if he was able to keep Sherlock from freaking out, then he would be able to look later. If he failed, he’d feel like a pervert for knowing what Sherlock looked like naked. 

Sherlock sat up against the headboard, glancing at John and trying to keep his eyes focused on him. John crawled over to where Sherlock was sitting and spread his knees apart, so he could sit between them. He kissed Sherlock, letting his tongue touch Sherlock’s lips but not probing in too far. He took himself and Sherlock into his hand and began rubbing his hand up and down. John, being a doctor, had given all sorts of exams before and could see signs of chafing, and although he wasn’t really trying to analyze anything, catalogued in his brain that Sherlock had been masturbating frequently recently. 

Sherlock wiggled underneath him, breath speeding up. John looked down at him for a moment, words passing without being heard. Sherlock responded to his unasked _Are you okay? Are you sure?_ with a kiss that ended with Sherlock’s tongue in John's mouth. John could feel the vibrations of Sherlock moaning and could feel a thin layer of sweat and pre-cum lacing his fingers. He stopped pulling and broke the kiss off to kiss down Sherlock’s neck and chest softly. Sherlock, John observed, was shivering, but not shaking in fear. When he reached Sherlock’s waist he put his hands on Sherlock’s hips and kissed his belly button, gripping Sherlock’s hips tightly and letting his tongue trail a line down the shaft of his penis before reaching the head and placing his mouth over Sherlock.

John wasn’t going to explain that this was something he’d only ever had done to him, or that he’d never actually been on top before because what he’d done and experienced was not important tonight (or should that be ‘this morning’?). he didn’t think anything so far was really warranting of an explanation, as Sherlock’s hands flailed above his head for something to hold onto, and he was clearly trying not to let his hips thrust into John’s mouth the way they wanted to. John had to applaud Sherlock for this level of self-control, but it was simply pointless. John’s hands left Sherlock’s hips and traveled around to his arse, forcing Sherlock to thrust into his mouth, Sherlock letting out a startled exclamation when his hips slammed back down and John’s pointer finger slipped into him.

It wasn’t exactly what John had been planning, but it was awfully convenient. He continued to prompt Sherlock to move into his mouth, and Sherlock continued to purposefully lay himself back down on John’s fingers, shuddering nearly every time. John eventually added a second finger and a third, but moved slowly when he twisted and spread his fingers. This was something Sherlock had never done before, and though John knew from experience that it was going to hurt regardless of how gentle he was it didn’t mean he was going to rough it up.

Sherlock let out a startled squeal when John bent his fingers, and he began panting in such a way John was sure he was going to hyperventilate. John let Sherlock’s penis slide from his mouth, still fully erect and leaking pre-cum, to lean over Sherlock and check his breathing. 

When John’s face came into view, Sherlock let out a startled laugh, still shivering slightly, and dragged John’s head down by his neck so he could better kiss him. He let his hands float to John’s stomach and then to his hips, bringing them down to meet his own.

John placed his hands on Sherlock’s thighs and dragged them up, placing Sherlock’s knees on his shoulders so he had enough room to kiss him as pushed his way inside.

Being inside a girl was much different from being inside a guy, and while John knew that as a fact he’d never, being always on the receiving end, experienced it first hand. But it was different – not worse or better (other than the fact that it was _Sherlock_ so yes, it was automatically several times better), just different.

Although Sherlock had been nervously quiet for the majority of their time in bed together so far, it stopped when John penetrated him. It started off with sighs as John continued to kiss him, his tongue mimicking the thrusting of the lower half of his body. It morphed into throatier moans when John pushed all the way in, his balls touching Sherlock’s arse as he pulled out and tried not to slam back in too quickly. The moaning became all out shouting when John started to hit his prostate deliberately with every thrust and Sherlock threw his arms around John’s shoulders, indicating for him to go faster and harder as he shouted incoherently and unintelligibly. 

John was leaning down so far that their bodies were touching in every place possible, and he couldn’t ever remember ever having this much friction during sex before as his stomach and abdomen rubbed against Sherlock’s penis, pinned between them. John was biting down a love bite on Sherlock’s neck when he came, and it was the first time, that John could remember, he was surprised by an orgasm. Even as a teenager he’d always been able to tell when they were coming (pun intended). But this time, not so much; he could feel the semen exiting his body as he continued thrusting into Sherlock, shuddering all the way. But although he could feel it, the thing that really clued him into it was the way Sherlock was silent for a minute before shouting and coming himself.

John didn’t move immediately, instead laying on top of Sherlock, circling his arms around him and turning onto his side, allowing himself to slip out with a groan from his partner. Sherlock panted into his neck as John pressed kisses to his head and hair. For ten minutes, as Sherlock wrapped his arms and legs around John’s body in a way that communicated _Oh, I love you so_ , the two were silent, aside from the panting.

Instead of the awkward ‘We should probably get cleaned up’ speech John was half expecting, Sherlock’s first words were ‘God, I feel like you were just saying you love me, over and over again, and I can still hear it.’

John let out a puff of breath that, on another day, might have turned into a smirk and a comment about Sherlock’s supposed lack of sentimentality, but today turned into a sleepy. ‘’Course I was. ‘S the idea, idiot.’

Sherlock smiled again, laughing without sound. They were quiet and still, for another minute or two, and John was sure they were both starting to drift off when Sherlock asked ‘Do you think, one day, when we’re not both already tired and sticky, you can teach me how to say it back?’

John smiled, playing absently with Sherlock’s hair. ‘You already have, love. You already have.’


	4. so wear me like the locket around your throat, I'll weigh you down, I'll watch you choke; you look so good in blue

In hindsight, shagging on the floor like rabbits really wasn’t such a good idea. It wasn’t because – well, not _simply_ because – of the way the hard wood floor burnt Sherlock’s back and John’s knees or the fact that, considering the various kinds of experiments conducted in and around the area of the living room, the living room floor did not at all provide the most sanitary conditions for shagging. But because simply living at 221B Baker Street was a health risk that could mean your very sudden death at any moment, John was more worried about destroying Mrs Hudson’s mental health. (Any worries of that were promptly kicked out of the window when John stumbled out of bed to find a small stack of condoms at the foot of the stairs and a note from Mrs Hudson, triple-underlined saying she was going to be gone to her sister’s the whole week but that Mrs Turner was going to be bringing them a pie.)

But frankly, John thought that if Mycroft really didn’t want to see his little brother sweaty and naked, moaning and babbling on the floor with John’s dick balls-deep in his ass and John’s lips attached to his right nipple, he should probably not have installed cameras in his brother’s place of living. And he should also probably learn how to knock before entering as if he owned the place.

John had been caught in many embarrassing situations throughout his life, but none had seemed so amusing after the fact as this one, although it certainly wasn’t amusing at the time. As it turns out, being smacked on the head with a brolly is quite extraordinarily painful and totally kills the buzz of orgasm. Sherlock also apparently screams like a little girl who’s just found monsters under her bed. But then again, Mycroft is just about the last person anybody would want to see while in the midst of climaxing.

When Mycroft had calmed down enough to be capable of coherent speech, he growled at John. ‘Why were you _fucking_ my little brother?’

John had plenty of insults at the ready and was feeling just cocky enough (no pun intended - no, wait, John definitely did mean that pun, even if he was only thinking it) to try a few out when Sherlock piped up, still blushing, from where he was hiding behind John. ‘Need you really be so vulgar, brother? You know that isn’t what was going on here.’

John was now very confused. ‘Oh?’ Mycroft sneered. ‘And would you mind telling me what _exactly was_ going on here?’

‘No, it really isn’t any of your business, but if your perverted curiosity truly does extend thus far I can assure you it wasn’t rape.’

John fell even deeper into the abyss of confusion. ‘Sorry, Sherlock, but what?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes but when he turned to look at John, John saw only affection there. ‘Fuck, John; F-U-C-K. It stands for Foreign Unlawful Carnal Knowledge. Or Fornication Under Command of the King, depending on where you get your information. It means rape.’

‘Oh,’ John said quietly. ‘Well, I’m never using that term again.’

‘What, little brother, were you doing with _him_?’ Mycroft spat, and John may or may not have imagined the little bits of saliva he felt on his cheek. Although really, that could have been there from his earlier activities. 

Sherlock blushed and muttered something under his breath that made John’s face light in the over-clichéd way of _like a Christmas tree_. ‘I’m sorry, brother,’ Mycroft prodded in a way that implied he really wasn’t sorry at all, ‘but what did you say?’

‘I said,’ Sherlock snapped, face so red John was wondering if Sherlock was beginning to lose feeling in his toes, ‘we were making love.’ Sherlock immediately let his hair fall in his face and his eyes fall to the floorboards as Mycroft did a startlingly good interpretation of the laugh of a villain John was certain he’d seen in an old Disney picture when he was much younger.

‘John doesn’t love you, Sherlock. Didn’t you already make this mistake with Victor?’

John wasn’t sure if it was the fact that Mycroft was comparing him to Victor, the fact that Mycroft was once again purposefully lowering Sherlock’s self-esteem, that Mycroft was once again spouting lies as if they were truths, that Mycroft was in a way telling John what he would or wouldn’t do, or if John was still angry over the whole Moriarty fiasco of several months ago, but in a nanosecond Mycroft had a black eye and a bloody nose and a very painful groin. ‘Just because nobody is stupid enough to love you, Mycroft, doesn’t mean the same is true for your brother.’ John paused for a moment, backtracking onto what he just said and hoping Sherlock wasn’t taking it the wrong way. A quick glance out of his peripherals showed him that Sherlock was nodding in encouragement while trying not to giggle. ‘I happen to love your brother and this happens to be our house and no one invited you in, so if you could just bugger off that would be lovely, thank you.’

Mycroft held his cheek tenderly, looking back and forth between John and Sherlock, not sure who was most deserving of the full-on brunt of his sneer. Deciding it didn’t matter, Mycroft turned and tried to coolly exit the room. He stopped at the door frame. ‘Oh, and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade would like to meet with you later on today, sometime before they transport Mister Victor Trevor back to Scotland. Apparently he has convinced enough people that it would be unwise to hold his trial or keep him anywhere in the vicinity of the two of you. Apparently you take things a little too…personally.’

When Mycroft had fully left, John walked over to where Sherlock was sitting naked on the floor and straddled his hips. ‘Did you mean it?’ Sherlock asked in uncharacteristic shyness.

John tilted his head and kissed his cheek. ‘Did I mean what, love?’

‘That.’ John shook his head for clarification. ‘That – did you mean it, when you said that you loved me?’

John tilted his head again, but this time with less confusion and more tired affection. ‘Honestly, Sherlock. You can read everything about a person in just one glance. Haven’t you already known the answer, for a very long time now?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said, brushing his hands up and down John’s sides, ‘but hearing it’s always nice too.’

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Victor was leaning on the police car door, handcuffed hands behind his back. He looked fairly amused and happy, considering he’d just been arrested for murder, forgery, theft, and attempted rape (although John was certain Lestrade was exaggerating just a bit on that charge, he wasn’t going to bring it up). John still had questions – namely, _Why?_ – and although he didn’t really care for what the answers clearly were, he still walked up to Victor Trevor, head held high to meet his eyes. 

‘Life is a series of failures, don’t you think?’ he asked, avoiding John’s eyes by looking at a flock of birds heading south.

John thought for a moment before responding. ‘You’re not going to get insanity plea, you know. When you say things like that, it really just proves that you knew what you were doing was wrong.’

‘But think about all of the things I did!’ the manic smile was back, and for a minute John thought that he might be wrong. ‘Doesn’t it all seem insane to you? To any normal person?’ He decided he wasn’t wrong after all.

‘Victor, even Sherlock thinks what you did was insane, but they’ve got your statement on – sod it, I don’t really care what happens to you. Good riddance, mate; cheers.’

Victor smiled serenely before his eyes darkened and his brow turned down to glare at John. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t want to run away with me? It could be fun, and you could be brilliant as an outlaw. You could take care of me.’

‘Charming though the idea of being the next in a long list of partners you’ve murdered sounds, I’ve got my own madman to look after, thanks. Oh, speaking of,’ John turned to the newly arrived Sherlock ( _checking my pulse points, does he really think Victor’s managed to poison me in three minutes?_ ) and dragged him down by the scarf, kissing him in a way that hopefully registered in the middle of his Scale of Acceptability for Public Consumption: neither too lewd nor too chaste. When he broke it off Sherlock looked dizzy and Victor’s nostrils were flaring, eyes crazed.

‘I’m going to murder you, you sodding, buggering –‘

‘Yeah, yeah, torches and pitchforks, we got it, now get in the damn car.’ Lestrade slapped one hand over Victor Trevor’s mouth, ignoring his tongue flickering out to try to remove Lestrade’s hands as he promptly shoved Victor’s head down and threw the rest of his body into the car. With a sigh, Lestrade turned to John and Sherlock. ‘Much though I find your aggravating the subject amusing, as I’m sure we all do, can’t you save the tonguing for the bedroom?’

‘Only when you learn to hide that smug, “I’ve-just-had-sex-with-your-brother” look, Lestrade.’ Lestrade’s face turned bright red and he sputtered for a moment before turning on his toes and marching in the opposite direction to go yell at Donovan and/or Anderson.

‘Well, that was something I never needed to know.’

Sherlock smirked. ‘It hasn’t actually happened yet, but it probably will, tonight –‘

‘Oh, god, please stop detailing these things –‘

‘I’m not _detailing_ , John –‘

‘Well I don’t care who your brother’s shagging, please just don’t talk about it.’ Sherlock nodded and the two watched in silence as the battered police car carried Victor Trevor off to New Scotland Yard.

There were still questions to be asked but, as per usual, Sherlock didn’t intend to answer them. Instead he began to walk back into 221B, holding John’s hand in his coat pocket. John chewed on the inside of his mouth for a moment, but before Sherlock could tell him to just spit out whatever he was thinking, John asked, ‘Victor said that life is a series of failures. Do you, I dunno, agree with that?’

Sherlock didn’t even pretend to contemplate the idea. ‘Life is a series of both successes and failures. But in the end, I’ve got you, so I’d consider that a success, don’t you agree?’ There was no real need for John to say he did, but the kiss was appreciated nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes our broadcast day! I hope you've enjoyed and any comments, advice, suggestions, what have you are appreciated but please, go easy, this is my first time having written smut.


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